Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“Cursed nuisance about that horse,” Sarcyn said, kneeling down by Camdel. “We’ll have to steal him another one.”

“I’ve been thinking that we should just kill him and be done with it. Things are much more dangerous than I thought they’d be. Don’t forget, there’s a war going on around here. We might meet a patrol or suchlike on the roads.”

Sarcyn looked up with a flash of mutiny in his eyes.

“I know I promised, but—” Alastyr hesitated, remembering the Old One’s warning that his apprentice hated him. “Ah, well, he doesn’t weigh much. You can tie him onto your horse until we get another.”

“I want a little of my own back from this stinking swine. Besides, we can use him for the ritual.”

“So we can, and tonight. Ye gods, I’m exhausted.”

Their mute servant, Gan, hurried up with the saddlebags. Although Alastyr was tempted to open them and gloat over the jewels then and there, time was short. Nervously he glanced round, half-afraid of seeing some noble lord and his full warband riding toward them. Camdel was going to be a blasted nuisance. He felt hurt, he realized, that Sarcyn would hate him, after all he’d done for the little gutter rat! Still, there was no time to worry about such things now, and hatred or not, Sarcyn was too useful to get rid of.

His head throbbed, blinding him, and there were arms around him. But where was he? On horseback. Somewhere. Camdel opened his eyes and saw green meadows around him. The Auddglyn. He’d tried to escape. With a groan he twisted in the saddle and realized that his ankles were tied to the stirrups.

“Awake, are you?” Sarcyn said.

Camdel realized, then, that Sarcyn was riding behind him and holding him on the horse. He heard the sound of other horses following them. The green meadows danced and shifted in his tormented vision.

“My apologies for the blow on the head,” Sarcyn went on. “But we couldn’t have you just riding off like that.”

“Why? What do you want me for?”

Sarcyn laughed, a little mutter under his breath.

“You’ll find out tonight.”

Camdel was too exhausted to ask more. Although he was thoroughly trained in weapon craft, and had indeed won several tournaments, he’d never ridden to war or indeed exerted much of any kind of energy in his life. The pain took over his mind for the rest of the long, miserable ride.

At last they rode up to a farm, which had been deserted for some time, to judge by the crumbling earthen wall around it and the sparseness of the thatch on the roof of the farmhouse itself. When the others dismounted, Sarcyn cut Camdel’s ankles free and pulled him down from the horse, then shoved him along inside to a big half-round room that had once been a kitchen. There was traveling gear scattered around on the floor and a pile of blankets by the hearth.

“Lie down and rest,” Sarcyn said. “But I’m tying your hands and feet to make sure you stay here.”

Once he was bound, Camdel lay very still and tried not to move his throbbing head. The others came in, talking among themselves about their booty, then moved on to another chamber. Although Camdel tried to drift off to sleep, he suddenly heard a howl of rage.

“It’s gone! It must have fallen out when his cursed horse got killed! Everything’s here but the Great Stone of the West. Sarcyn, get your horse saddled and get back there to search.”

The Great Stone of the West. What was that? Camdel vaguely remembered the name, but the pain in his head was making it hard to think. He drifted off into unconsciousness, only to have a frightening dream that Alastyr was questioning him about this mysterious stone.

When he woke again, it was night, and a fire was burning in the hearth. Nearby Alastyr and Sarcyn sat on the floor and talked quietly in a cold fury while the servant huddled in the shadows in the curve of the wall. When he realized that they hadn’t found the stone, he was pleased. Although he gave an involuntary groan when he tried to move, the pain in his head was bearable.

“Give him somewhat to eat and drink,” Alastyr said. “I want to work the ritual straightaway. All this astral traveling I’ve been doing has left me drained, I don’t mind telling you.”

Camdel’s heart started pounding like a drum. Every tale of evil magicians he’d ever heard came back to him as Sarcyn strolled over.

“Oh, we’re not the opium runners you thought we were,” Sarcyn said as he knelt down. “Soon you’ll learn more of the truth, Your Lordship. At first you’ll hate what I’m going to do to you, but in a while I think me you’ll develop a strange taste for it. You’re just the sort who does, you stinking little weakling. Your Lordship!”

When Sarcyn cut his hands free, they shook so badly that Camdel could barely hold the waterskin he was handed, but he was so thirsty that he forced them steady and drank in long gulps. Sarcyn watched with a small smile that made his flesh creep.

“Hungry?” he said.

“I’m not.” Camdel gasped out the words. “Please, just let me go. My father’s rich, he’ll ransom me, by the gods, please, let me go!”

“Oh, you’ll never see your father again, lad. You’re coming with us to Bardek, my fine, swaggering, noble lord. When you’re of no use to the master anymore, you’ll be sold as a slave. And when I’m done with you, too. I think you’d best try to please me and make sure that I don’t tire of you straightway.”

All at once Camdel understood his implication. Involuntarily he shrank back as Sarcyn laughed down at him.

“He probably couldn’t get food down,” Alastyr broke in. “Cut his ankles free and bring him along.”

When Sarcyn hauled him to his feet, Camdel staggered. He’d been bound so long that it was hard to walk. The apprentice half shoved, half carried him into another chamber, where a piece of black velvet, embroidered in strange signs and sigils, hung on one wall. Candle lanterns hung glowing from hooks, and in one corner was a small bronze brazier, giving off a soft cloud of incense. In the middle was a stout iron ring set into a trapdoor, which doubtless led down to a root cellar or some mundane thing.

“We’ve had everything ready, just waiting for you to wake,” Alastyr said, and Camdel hated his oily voice more than ever. “Now, if you struggle too much, you could be hurt, so lie quietly.”

At that Sarcyn shoved him facedown on the floor so hard that he gasped for breath. Quickly the apprentice bound his hands to the ring, then stepped aside. When Camdel looked up, he saw Alastyr standing at his head not more than three feet away. His hands were raised, palms forward, about shoulder high. In the dancing candlelight his eyes seemed to glitter as he stared into Camdel’s own. All at once he couldn’t look away, even though he struggled to. Alastyr’s eyes had him caught, pinned there, and he felt as if the old man were sucking life out of him, draining him in some mysterious way that he couldn’t understand.

Then Sarcyn knelt down beside him and began pulling off his brigga, reaching under him to unlace them and to fondle him. He struggled, thrashing like a caught fish, but the apprentice was too strong. Shivering in fear, he lay half-naked and stared up into Alastyr’s eyes while Sarcyn spread his legs apart and knelt between them. The old man began to chant in some incomprehensible tongue, a soft, rhythmic mutter that was the more frightening for being done so slowly, with such perfect control.

Then he felt Sarcyn’s hands grasp his buttocks. When he realized what was about to happen to him, he wanted to scream, but no sound would come.

In the gray, humid dawn, the camp began to wake—the men yawning and cursing, the horses rousing themselves and pulling at their tether ropes with soft snorts. At his guard post down by the stream, Rhodry sheathed his sword and rested his shield on the ground while he waited for the captain to come release him from duty. On the other side of the stream stood a crop of spring wheat, turning pale gold and ripe for the harvest. Summer’s here, Rhodry thought. My first cursed summer as a silver dagger.